THE WARLOCK OF LOVE by MARC BOLAN
PREFACE We hide behind the masks of the Orient, because the sullen lumbering shapes of the western world strike fear and terror into our limbs, and all is ungrown. Legends we long for and legends there are in the east of our heads. So perchance Gods dwell unseen in the east of the world.
The breeze from the hill journeyed through his snowy hair like an omen. His cloak of caution, threadbare and patterned, fell to the moorland mire like a lamented autumn leaf. He dribbled his thoughts like a mastiff. “If only,” he muttered, uttering words of poetry in magical wordways, causing violent upheavals in the animal homesteads within earshot of his daggered lips. The questical day had held all the promise of an artist, but with the grey horseless cloud of the autumn afternoon all hope of starfields revealed was lost, as a pebble of love in the black scorched deserts of civilisation. As a last hermetic gesture, with the masts of the day spent, the gaunt man, pure of skin but soiled of soul, prepared his parchment scroll and crouched like a beggar began the last task of his day — an etching of a child, blue skinned and shapen like a fowl of the skies, with eyes so true and hallowed that the artition wept as he drew, and already the quest was begun.
Proud browed he sat with his pekinese hat Basked in the sun of the musical one. A rope for wise men held his tail all dapper. He jostled the pawn of pearl in his ever growing hands, And with his handsome wand he chirped scholarly Abroad the desolate land. And a blanket of perfumed tailors sewed the skirts of the Earth In ever decreasing cycles. One for Exaviar and the other for Ono the waterman. The salt seeker, the carp-carved kinglett of Oceantanicas Fin-browed.
Yon ravelling Mage, crisp sunseanian Sage deep acrest a mass, a hillock of woven ash. Tarragon seed whim is a coin in the swim of your skin. One pleasant fin, O for such rippled skin, akin to a far star, deep abreasted like a raft, a lantern beam cathedral in the dungeons of my cask. And a ship from Paladinya yes, a pavilion of Pallacian mind, a tower awned with lighting, a swans wing and a dipped ring and you swimming like my mountain, the delved crescents of your breast of true julip of Dodona a league skimmed proper above the rest. O, Our nest could hold silk stars a taffetian nation, an elven rope, a scarlet kerchief wept and laiden like the galley of dead uncles’ boat. And a brace of shining finches, sleek necks climbing towards our sky, four driving jewelled rivers and unmapped oceans, just Dodona, a whole zinc of finches, you and I.
Camellia of the willow weep Prancing up the hilly steep Your evening ringlets wiggling long All fluted Twirling in the whirling wind of wincing summer.
Sycamore of sorrow, pray I’m swallowed in the swell of your yelling leafy breast. My crippled bended chest is shamed through flaming crowsfeet, soaring nouns of norse confessions, dark earth gremlins, rootlegged, hobbling in the cryptess of my turned wound. Ill-famed fair prince, steal my lightning, stake me with steel, for my haughtiness. Straddle my storm head with your abyss shroud. Call me harlot. Call me wormywordler. Everso, but out loud.
The winter witch with her charts and fate has half a life, but no more. The summer saviour has a torso of gold but a heart burnt and timefearing. My love is a season unto herself.
To have and have not is all that I’ve got like a count with a purse full of princes. A bird on the wind of a pleasant stream from the brook of the garden of senses. And the count lived like a count, for he was But the widow lived like a widow, and was not.
Birdling suckled on the tongue of the wiseone who has tutored you in meadows, learned laughter looks he bequested you. As a child you storked on one bird of thought, but his classic hair streaming knowledge, where like a muse it would wash you. And now as a suitor, he courts you, clasped in the rug of his love like a reindeer. For his winding mind knows the quarrying folly of untamed youth. Like a new stream, prey of the sun, a child in the summer of the drought. Yet she dotes on his old brow, pressed hot lips on the hearts of his toes, recites in moon flooded groves the prose of his choice. Like a voice, she travels in love. Like a lover, all is well.
The closet eye. Dove skims the sky. A silver penance, a wrong wicked and shorn assulted his majesty exalted. My rams foot hexagonals on, and O for the ice king a twitter in the storm. The eloquence of blue juliped tents and a crown of dark swansdown. O Elaina, child soothsayer, cheetah sleeper, laden legs like a god — a fools everglade like the seasons slave, and your quince everlasting horn-lamp made of wheat at your tiny rivered feet.
Tall as the truth the creature coughed in the clouds, feeding on mountain tips and the rare winged eagle lords that journeyed higher than the memory of man. It’s claw, caked in mist and wishes, ripped at a pillar of fear masoned long ago by terrible forgotten Titans, to prevent the dreams of man from floating in the valleys of the diamond. It’s eyes, like women and sand, shifted ever searching for the perilous horn of plenty. A foolish colossus it looked, ragged and unworshipped. Solitary on the roof of the world, a remaining nightmare in a plateau of fair thought. It moaned and clumsily spewed spells of fear on the storm stallions grazing in the temple of pearls. And the years danced on. And all that moves returns to stone, eventually.
The vanquished Sun Is like the withered yolk Of a weathered egg.
I crave a slave A carrion man All rigid like a tearfull elm I crave for me my rhyming man All horsey and Voltaire With a river in his hair And a forelock bright as brass In the dancing steep emotion of his glance A travelled Duke of skyvieled sickness With the horn of Ishmal gravelled in his plotting hand Grand, grand, grand O prawn of time One wish to soothe me One spake to rhyme.
A star of youth was spawned one day Born on the horses of the sleigh. In a green of elm, the sky, outstretched spake, ‘Drink deep O twinkler in my lake’. For a wish you’ll be burdened to coronet on your dome, like a will o’ the wisp all a tender, you’ll surrender in the deep foamy kitchens of the muse and one word they will say and like a pelican and yellow amethyst they bless long your stay in the abbey blue, but in glittered hue you wept for summers’ limbs upon the pleasant turf and your shields of ice in the chilly times, creamed in grey wolfs’ hair, you stride your windy stair, you’ll miss no cathedral bed, for you dote on the treasure in the chest of your head.
With the girdle of life unadorned on my brow my eye’s appetite is relieved with starry sights and mellow wonders. Yet with a girdle mammoth in starfields and moontrees my heart’s eye is dull and my soul ever hungry.
The Fluted Floors of Dagamoor The fluted floors of Dagamoor. A sovereign schemed and prismed, a sly extended mushroomed hand dead from the wars of Faragadan. The ground a muted mat of twigs, that sing upon clouds, grand canyonised through lack of faith its chests of rare curiosity. A medallion head in casted lead brought from the mines of Hadrian, by a lame young man with a stammering lip and a hip which swung with leprosy. Woe, his falling brow ceased to shimmer at least, but his deep earth loves were for cold earthmined stone.
The silver clothen Saracen and the pheasant and the oriole sailed on sandel feet in the dagger of the Dagyor heat, to a rippling shore where one ivory core of apple, nibbled and spelled upon, lay. The dark fleshed lord bowed his silk embroidered caplett lower than the Earth, deeper curved than the bend of years. And with fingers oiled and spiked, the old fruit he clutched. And his purple sound serpent mumbled blacklore to appease all thats lurking and hidden. And then the quake came, like a ship it rode the vast of light. The Saracen prince, his finery finished, sunk — burrowed like a mole with the night madness. The core bore wings and it’s strong whiteness shimmered long. Then O the wind it ate an unsaddleable horse with wings of such girth as to dwarf the eagle lord. And the steed steered the stars and bade the quaking birds to follow. And on mounting the wind they too grew like young oaks, flew like laughing words and on their starkest flight at a height immense, they reached the waters of the world and ploughed like farmers the waves of power. And all creatures welcomed them and adorned them with flowers of faith.
A Baul so small His hooded eye a night hawk Swooping over my parched and weary limbs The gardens of my five-toed stalking stilts Are dried like the fruit of the hag. His bell of topaz Was pirouetted upon with whirls of distant history And the wonderous wisdom of his tungstone forefathers. In just one of the shaded gulleys of his ravining cheek, Sleek and unblemished, were hung bold enfolding raiments of scroll. A scribbled etching of the crystallined phail Containing my first tear river given in love. Shadowed in the mansions of dusk The wanderer, clad in the cloak of the hills, Mounted his shimmering pony and threw me a dagger, A tableaux of a manger quill painted on the hilt, And set in the bosom of the blade A tiny outstreched hand All small and topaz.
A hedgehog, large as a man, husked along behind me on that tunnel night. It’s shape, like a lover, roiling and certain in the caress of love. It’s eyes, muddy like a river, brown as broth, sad and aged like a liver leaving life. And as I, panting like a tournament, overcame the tortures of my towering flight, he burrowed, like moley, into the morbid wall and vanished. A ghost of the heart, sweet and hunched like an actor. And even on leaving the yoke of fear on some other man’s shoulders, I was saddened at hedge’s passing.
A frozen bird in the stretching sand clutched like a warrior for my staken white hand. But an ant like an eagle on wings webbed with faith swooped like a summer storm and slew the dark pearl of hate and vanished like a friend would.
My period of birdlings, a wish upon a word rolling as the landscape of laughter that’s hidden in your throaty cuff of silks and sacking. The curb of your delicate neck, pure vision of wiseness. A bird heard once of a shallow hearted sage, who wagers all fellows to out-riddle him. So the lenient linnet, learned and lored gently perched on the brim of his flashing morning satin hood, and uttered one phrase, a parable of taste, and the sage sank from wisdomanic view, like a pistoled pike. And the countryside was young once more, for the linnet resumed it’s natural shape as a gutter dog, black and white like the proverb.
Beamed like a quaking ship’s mast. Handsome like a stage coach, robed in thunder brown. One yellow negro eye scans the failing hand and a host of theatricals baubled and jingly, jestered their tumbling way in peuce frock-coats and plumed hats, pierced with crockery. And fallen young bucks courting the beautiful Bountise, manboy, brother of Rossenos, the sheik eyed, and tamed the timid women walk, horse hair, flaxen, oaten torn skirts and lead planken awful legs veined and blue, dribbled like a fleeing night all dripping and wrung of dawn sun. And the pastel hotel delled and eclipsed trenched in cobbled stone moats of goat toeways. And a sparrow limped all little and golden a broken wing tucked nowhere except round the blizzard north wind. All dark town, one tumbled river clown, one on horseback, now horse led. His drunk skull painted and pink clowning, bruised in the chalking gutter. The horse walks, the clown screams, a bargee foot caught in the dense root of a lampost and blood gushed from a locket socket and the harley head breathes no more timid bitter air. The nodding horse backsteps, sniffs the air
Earthlord, sings for blood, bolts like a wave and onelegged the rancid death carcass clown mysteries the cobbled watery highways and a gendarme bellows like a cuckold bull. Dipped in circus red, the evening sparrow all sodden and clawed hops homeward, with a sword heart and a rained memory for prison life. Could Hamlet have known. Ah sweet violins whisper deep sweeps, in August, for Columbine and her racked prism rhyme is a spell bound with elves love of summer.
Falcon Queen of distraught youths beam A laughing mask grilled with chance and sun-bleached hay One Spanish day in a sailor way You spoke volumns, you clutched at starlings wings You nodded gently And me gallantly torching the way In my gull-gashed way, stripped bleeding reed dream. Bullrush orphan of the belled tolling night I wish you Earth’s rich moss fulfillment In your bluebell chiming plight.
My head I hold to the four winds. My being, in it’s fullness, as a banner afire with the rays of life’s light, I decant in a milky jar to be drunk by the living breeze, to be ridden by the rider of the muse to a heaven of growing pure ivory, breeze born and reeling in the joyous poem of life. A house of beastly contentment, yet with heads caped in the knowledge of love, the lace dublets of wisdom and foundations of eagles ever alert and mighty, mother eyed, in compassion and feeling father in the heavy horned harness of state. My pride I hold upon a jet shield, high in the domain of the wind. My folly as a fool, leather-eared and asslike in the molten paths of my conceit. A leper is healthier than myself, if cleanliness of soul is a flesh scholar. My ears are bangled with tangling ivys sprung from the fiery downs of falsehood. For my eyes, hooded and beaten by the years are eaten by the vulture of mythology. My skull juice, curdled like an overripe cheese reeking and ill in my castle of destiny. Like a pomegranite am I. Oh, wind ones with your shallow cares for the darkened heart, in your rolling robes of chivallry, which way will your guillotine gaze fall.
A lily in my mouth White dawnlips pierced with rose thorn. A stake of bone escarpes the dingle-stone Of the throne of my stoat-grown-goat white tusks all uneven and stormy, like a swollen lake bearing sandlewood barges Disregarding ears and jadely earrings Blessed by priestly Celtic woadmen With pearly dancing fingers Gloved on bones of silver dusk runes Of sad wood wine And the master builder prances like a puppeteers Mandala While the mighty oakmen linger Sobbing cruely on the acorns Giving vapours of Earth future To the gypsied hord from Elruna.
Quilted head and quested breast albino eyes seek the lusted chest. A Quinn of size with tempest eyes, forsooth he screamed, the peach flies. And see the lid of darkened sky the eagle fails, the fleet-winged dies. A fruit of fur, a carnibor as tall as Thor, the mysticor. A paean of fire leapt steel clad from the cove all torn and bleached in devil mauve. I aimed my barb like the dawning wave and wrote a clef spear around the stave. And a hand of black topaz hid on a steed of wondrous dimensions, on storks it could feed. And down from the bowels of the choking gold cave rode the sleeping prince regent and the ore rivers of nave. But my lusted tense raven eclipsed by the bay roved a rune of distraction to the mute in the hay. Then the shook ‘rik sicked gospels, usurped from the wind, and all was forgiven and the tawny king sprung.
Daughters of love unite. Encircle our woody globe and blow at the smouldering hearts of our youth, as if it were Earths’ birthday. And with the coming of the sweet breath, the seeds in the garden of all hearts will flower immense, and such flames licking and long, will be sighted upon our lands, that it will seem to the highborn that the Earth has hatched anew. For golden would be the flame. And gold is the colour of the maturity of Man.
O locust weariness swelled ‘pon Parnasus high hill all splendid and love green. Willow head of willow woods and wept wells of wooded willows. Clammy summer scorched with lost summer taunt kiss. Hot lips over Pacific seas of turtle tips scorned by sabre corals where dead galleys sleep. O weary safe near wooded dell tell to all the winters tale of its scorcered pavilion and it’s lassoed launch and my fat whipped Egyptian and his vast vat paunch and the Corsican curse which I have born through my twenty fruittree years of my wizardesque seasons dense through sandlewood mansions which that Maltese man leases to my hawkheeled zinc eyed guardian. Sluice-gate sage ride me with rucksack and assorted wares and garlanded hair to a larger hand. A god filled sky and a vanquished eye, a Quebecian hall girded ivory tall and my dear Peruvian dog and my first love hacked log and some new pure white lies and eight blind god cat eyes and a hide corked wine jug with a squirrel child to love and a tall gallow shouldered saviour of sovereign repute to teach me manners and how not to cast black sun on Hannah (my Savana one).
As a listener he sits, a lizard of light, crawling the bark of his beard morn white. A winter suit of lily’s, dry yet touched by the dew of the sky. In it’s expanse, a lone bird journeyed sullen and determined like a miner. A jackdaw it seemed, but I doubted. My learning ring splintered my nights into wild dark days weary and eerie like the foggy hearted forests of Skullan. It seemed to my living eye that the maidens watery hand held a stoat, but the light had failed and the rainy hew of the lord of night veiled the land like a vision. And I drunk deep of his goblet of blood like a werehare, and the youth of the dawn punished me as a thief, racking me in pillorys of beauty, dense and pastoral, sweet and fragrant. Rivers of scented poems travelled the misty roadways of my crooked nose and like the vague rogue that I am I smelt and felt the hem of dawns raiment with the intensity of a brock and lo true friends my all was forgiven.
The chariots diminish high on the chartered hills of science. One shadow, hairless and crooked, crouched at the crossroads leaning only on half remembered loves of his youth and an oaken spent staff of debatable stoutness. Seated he watched the skull of the sky, quiet as a new brook, it’s banks virgin to the foul man. Stars he measured and cats he slept with, curled in the arms of night, pillowed on the breast of the meadow like a babe. But such wisdom and liquid knowledge tricked down the small falls of his head as have not been witnessed almost since the beginnings of stars. And he’d talk with you and feel no discontentment and he’d befriend you if you had the wits of a cat and he’d love you no matter what your fame. For seated he is a temple, to crawl to, in your mornings of despair. But standing, alas, no eyes yet born could accommodate such beauty of features made by the ancient masters of the maze. Yet of course he knows it, and remains seated, humbled and exposed until the dawn of the Procession when all will be revealed.
Eminesque head of Tallow waters Living deep hidden in my masters quarters — Come you sweet mouse one Sleep near June’s bed And comfort our protector From his wet churning ocean head.
A diggered dog I saw, scorned for his pleasantry’s and jostled by passing strangers in coarse attire. His eyes saw humbly and the castle’s saint reared dark as a forest into his canine vision and kicked with the palm of his hunting boot, inches into the wagglers face. And in the raining skys of the afternoon, the pup, shaken and withered, orphan, mute and savaged was cupped low within the hand of the meadows and lost to the hollow eyes of the village men. Grew great and mastiff and became a god, worshipped and worried by cropcries and selfish eyes, yet ruled strong and true and compassionate, like a saint, strangely.
Liquid fleeting music into the murky streams of time hollowed in a gulf of cyprus grove grown slender vine a pounced moon palely harkens to the baying of a girl with an oracle juiced peuce lip building verbs from windydale. And you O old thing masked and wheeling on the pinnacles of night a hooded hollowed rover, trundling caskets drunk with light. And a virgin slaying hide hand tipped with tongs of tempered steel riding randy to the beamed lodge-house robbers’ sanctuary a goose to steal you charlatan thundereyes.
The hawk of death the widow fears most along the islets of the river’s coast In her house, weak in magic, the blue wells ’neath her eyes, muddy and rich, vomit rabbits, milk white and bare with artists ears but scoundrels hearts tattooed and thumping in the pale limpit light of the pit of angels. A torso of tin, dull and knotted, lay sweating by the bed of the wilted widow. But her pastures were barren and untilled, and the illness of Ashemoc dredged her heart and left her an eyesore in a century of nymphetic connoisseurs.
O nosediving eaglet stormed on a mountain of glass, pear-rich in havens of torrential wisdom and baroque melodys upon awful bursting clouds of hawk blood. Slip slip skip my fruit friend, iron all blue veins into compressed cans of random air jets. Sink sink think on an ancient hill, forms from craven hawk hulks, leftovers from the lost skull of Atlantis. See see be a fly man winged and sung, launched upon a wave of shivering gull foam. Beard beard reared upon a horse house east of the Arcadian Gulf near Puma, reclosed in my dead Esters’ automatic stage coach. Crown crown a sun down gown, burdened with figs of Esters’ mad hairwishes and rock in Dad’s lamented twisted well of waterless fire tongued anguish. And O the storm of evening on the gull reddened sky is rocks like my Atlantic vision near the ravishing brow. And Demeter loves me most because I of all men can alter bread to toast.
The Corken Cavalier White candle masted in the oaken ship The ashen staff knotted and knarled Leans a rested stalk against the marble mantle A moulded mound of uncultured Cornwall bred cheese Sulked in a pale imitation of a gutter pierrot Portraying pursued pride and a chastened kiwi destiny The rook of revenge hovered like a cave Over the passive child who’s whirlinghead Was a gateway, For the long trodden robe and rod and ancient runic roads Of the seeking Elders of Earth. A chess, cloaked and chosen as a vessel Fit for the horned kings of the soil To toil and tarry the milestones of on high And wingless to walk the paths of the sky And await the perilous procession of willows With a laugh in your teeth and a heart overshadowing The realm of your head. One cavalier donned wings of cork And forced the stalwart starling to read aloud the runes He tunneled down swifter than the eye Heavy in speed, still as the mountain of years A fool in a grave of cork So deep in the core of the abyss That Solomon, Count of on High, Has spent strained nights eyes burnt and used Moleing the sodden soil of the seasons And not seen a sign nor spoke a word With any of the hidden hords of the delving deep Who’d as much as spake to a savage rummager Who’d seen with shielded vision or head with cloven ear In the dank and deep lore of old Any tell of the Corken Cavalier.
A southern homestead, a warrior sucking spring liquid from a ferny waterwell in the field. His sword sickled like the pearly May moon. His willow toe, a travelled hollow of orchards and vineyards, fording brown streams in the gauntlet of land, east of the leaning cedars. A rustic land peopled by hermits. Skyward and tilted they map the skys palm, howl on the haunted hillocks that Aznageel’s awoken. The wet roping hair of the fairess is set like a talisman on the southlands of her head. And a wolf of marble, snowy like a storm with blizzard brow and ivory fangs, ranges the steeplands like a poaching forester in the light. O such a wonder at dusk, his tusks, dribbling like a stream. And his thunder ahowling on the granite of night’s dream, a white wolf proclaimer of fortune. A child chooser. A friend of the fair, all snowed and like winter. If you wish hard, he’s there.
Although it stands like a widow to the world the birds’ husband and appears to our criminal sight a heartless ornament cold as twilight the birds know it’s moods for the statue is more than it seems.
Haunted eyes and night, decide upon the storms back who’s to ride abreast the chest of inlaid iron. With smelted mail and spears of Cairn, the thunder beast — a steed of flame — a sorcerers hour in the fiery game. The bit and stirrup, a smouldered hand, a bony skinless smithed brand. And the servant of water, the daughter of pain, the nymphet of Nature’s nourishment, the jestered pale rain.
Oiled fire canopy launched from his mane like shimmering train my palm all ascreech with torn warmth for legs encircling me, calm body heat charmed medallion breast round and true like a forest beasts thigh and a scaled mans eye all darkened in the night of a seashell eyeball, On his mad mane all alive and redly a deadline pine hacked and laughing upon his white jaunted crippled chin, a pony boy all stemmed and loping chewed all the tulips and with gartered feet vomited redness on the sudden lawn and shell-eye loved eagle-pie a fool man with tortoise wisdom and stapled teeth, a man who could kill a sky stallion is a worthless clod, a baboon soul with a forked streak of liver upon his forlock. For my angel wore a cloud shroud and a pea green talon of candle sheen which waxed her young skin and threw moon-tune all upon her children and all my spawn had a song and wore wondrous jet breast plates of heart dark.
A ship of rhythm lit like a beacon tossed like a ferret on the wings of fleeing night. Snuggled like an acorn, Withered like a willow, Wanded by the skycloaked founder of precious light. His nose was a clifftop unto me. An ocean swelling and talking Was lost in the lonesome lands Of his kind hand, and he gave To me a word to brand my being with To wash in it’s windy splendour and mellowness And to treasure as my inheritance, When the panther of pride beckons me, For he knows me since a sapling Through the ink of my foolishness he’s seen And he’s cared As a father would.
Sing us a song from the furrows of your heart of spirals of wild geese and talk chalk cliffs immense and changing. And a rain song, a cloud calmer to sooth the prowlers in the temple. Yes, O sing us worldly ballads yon fair skinned balladeer. Perhaps of hunting in the deepest fog-filled regions of my wood realm, of roes running and stags sunning in the cool stare of the fair lady of my household the small daughter of the cloud caller who’s shadow’s taller than any living thing. Or a sleep song for my precious children, a pigeon portion of the shuttered refrain of Indian elephants proudly leading transparent tigers on smithed chains. Yes, Lutition, the bed of my head is made, Silk awaits me. Wake me in the dawning With the morning of your song.
The verse of her life limped forlorn in the moon of her day like an eternity. She once ruled the hearts of men. On all fours they’d grovel, fish in her cunning pool. But alas her moon waxed. Like a mighty juggler the starry garments tumbled from her timber limbs, like a cloud thirst, a rainless sky in the hills of autumn, distant at the doors of debauchery. The halls of condolence rang empty in her presence, for a child was born. Clad as a fledgling, the innocence of man under the shadow of the furrowed brow, dark and still, a river of silver regrets trickling, fumid and foul through the tunnels of dusk.
A Tear for the High Star A tear for the High Star, hidden pinnacle of the brow.
Our bed of love is like a glove, tender and warm, that we creep into when the eye of noise whines like a bird of prey. Our gauntlet smoothly sails our sea of dreams, like a mountain, solid yet begotten from the Earth and at the old mothers mercy. Merely one petal, frail and fragrant, pillowing our sleepy bodies, silent in the noise of the night. Loud in the night of silence we snuggle and vibrate, entwined like saplings of the vine. And warm, we laugh, our silver selves like spartans, brown as the bread of the wilderness, but tender and with limbs light and subtle through the eternal washing in the spring of wisdom. Winged, but not birds. Fathers, but no children, kinsman yes. The plateau of peace, in it’s japanese splendour, is for us my friend, to share with bear and to worship without pride the swanfolk of the moon, the stallion of the sun, and to nestle like sparrows under the warm immense beard of the master.
At leafy dale the mammoth snail on the head of an oak sat. It’s house a fiery crimson and it’s visionary eyes friendly and sad. Lonely was he, as huge as a wish, his colours throbbing in the dense fog of sunset. And then he sang, notes true and full, pure as the pearly horn of unicorn, lithe as a fairy dance in the rustling forest glades of Esher. Birds, tall and princely, little and pale, blue and delila, green as the evenings kiss, hovered over his unseeing horns. Shadows and men, horses, and gryphons geese and shapes in pale attire, with burning eyes and hair of the waves lighting the skies with little lamps of moon beams and star kisses. The morning came like the crack of a whip, all melted with hearts brimming with sweet song and prophecys of the triumphant return. But alas, as the snails last living sparrow of sound dipped and dived and flew to the rainbow, all life had vanished. And on opening his shuttered chateau of sight, alone he was and thought he had always been so. And his weeping was long and destroying.
Dance the night in rags of vineyard grey. Move like a willow water gushing through the gates of dance. The chance of love in the twilight, bejewelled tassels binding the startangled skys, like a fisherman. Motion toed, loping up the hillocks of youth like a furry soul, drinking with your sweet springing mouth, hooded by the stream of Pan. Then the morn and simitar rain and pain on your bruised lips like a locket, but the wine is hidden and the key is thee and the troupe like a hoop ascends the hills like a sleep and the day like a wheel is ever turning.
Yon ravelling Mage, crisp sunseanian Sage deep acrest a mass, a hillock of woven ash. Tarragon seed whim is a coin in the swim of your skin. One pleasant fin, O for such rippled skin, akin to a far star, deep abreasted like a raft, a lantern beam cathedral in the dungeons of my cask. And a ship from Paladinya yes, a pavilion of Pallacian mind, a tower awned with lighting, a swans wing and a dipped ring and you swimming like my mountain, the delved crescents of your breast of true julip of Dodona a league skimmed proper above the rest. O, Our nest could hold silk stars a taffetian nation, an elven rope, a scarlet kerchief wept and laiden like the galley of dead uncles’ boat. And a brace of shining finches, sleek necks climbing towards our sky, four driving jewelled rivers and unmapped oceans, just Dodona, a whole zinc of finches, you and I.
A demon of the grave bore me away on a solid ship, black as a villians heart. A lost sun, a gloomy blue, shone on my bronze lids like a summertime. The hobbly nobbly skull of the knave was green, a sheen such as the slime extracted from the citadel of a long bad oak, rotted and hollowed by the winter of greed. It’s fingering verse wove webs around my young head and ate my courage like sweet cakes and a moat, brown and deep, he produced from the linings of his grape-coat. On a barge of bodys tied with lifes’ thongs we sailed the mire and arrived pitch black at his shack by the shore. And there I died, sliced by my own image yet freed by my own enemy my flesh on a pyre, and me silver limbed a lyre for the heroes of the ages to play tender love lays in my hearts’ house to serenade the beings of the beginning, like an orchard, ripe and rewarding.
We stood there in the youth of our love, Me asparagous green, you with fortunate gloves. My rapier staff was of yeilding summer oak And your toes were tongued with dynastys of foxgloves And we strode tall and long with the scowling winter Everso gone. And our hair was as one head, spiraled and twirly grotto-grieven red.
Travelling the Earth on a sows back, seagreen and perilous Lovett nostrils strutted with steel rings smithed in the holes of the hollow hill. A turban of glitter stuck to my head, like an arm. Not mine, but from a pyramid of past passions, throbbing and wrong like the fingertips of tong. I sleep wide eyed and wild. An elephant boy on a pig that’s as stout as a rhinosaurus with Samuri mail and a thunder bow plucked from the branches of the moon cold, the ear hair spoke to me in silver words, un-understood but tearbringers. My legs cramped in a vice of water yet the seas of Man were untold distances below me. And like a Syrian boy I weep — poetically, on the hind legs of my destiny.
All sodden the sky, like a princess, weeps. The bush by the gallows exiles the birds of the dawn to less morbid domains, for the Worm has been sighted. A young god, who’s summer hands were moulded for the pleasures of the grove and the leisures of the lyre, quakes like a mountain of earth’s youth. And it comes like a sorceress, one eye shines with yellow rays of orkney wisdom. One side of it’s divided mouth, a smile like hope. Teeth, auburn. Seats for the saints, the eye hidden in the mists and foul flowering fog is wholly dark and corrupt. It’s limp light of lust and greed dries the paths of it’s sight like a biblical plague, and hornets huge and hoary jig a sad immitation of the act of love. Bizarre theatrics unsuited for the eyes of the first born and the wise limbed children of the daylight. A howl terrible and long sped on the paths of wind. A claw, cautious and yellow, considered it’s preordained actions, as a crystal watcher would. Black as the wilderness, the fangs of blue, eyeless, tore it’s divided flesh
searing the watchful night with pains from the great tear of time. Teeth like great oaks, sharpened and mellowed for war. In the dawning faith of the new day, lost fleeing wisps of mist lingered blindly. One last dying opal prophecy was left hovering unheard in the morn. The heap stared, mishapen, like the first roads of a life, a monument of the tortures of the sane. But, alas, with the dispersion of the wisdom mist and the foul fingering fog, all went unchanged.
Sleek Andromeda swirling in an undershift, a pimple temple like on her portcullis longship lip. I dance on her gliding stomach of fibs and erect my many coloured mast in her belly-button. Take a cheekbone, any cheekbone, lay it pastely on a furnace brasier and look for sand. Marrow melts, mud squelches and belches over my handsomely haunted hand but no sand. A beach I whimper I need to bask upon a sun-dipped dripping moon of beach. My face feels the draft now, my shaggy face lags like a quilled pig — my bones burnt and not a seed of sand remains only a high forked pitch of light cine-marly sailing my sagging dripping wood-wild skipping face. And now reader I have only half a head.
Easel tomb of distant shore My iron barbarian pincer door Is bolted and bridled like a colt And a foal of laughter dances deep Alcoving in his absynthe coat And his perriwig sung like a foggy night On a salted beach Carved from a ransomed behemoth. A beautiful beast with a coat of pure damask A sprig of terror, a hoof of forest horn. Unicorned in a sinking sky, The beast expired like a snow-cloaked winter robin On the destiny of days. And avalanched August skipped and wheeled On the sheilded loom of life’s strife. And one lonesome ox calf died with the christening Of dawn.
Cloak me in ermine Merlin Hawk of the legendary past Proud shore eyes Far flown childhood Devourer of field fellows Hunter Prince for crimson fellons Lean pale childs all grown stumped and tawny Club-eyed Wearied foot Waltzing Towering Earth’s pastures A furry fetcher Jaws of ivory bones And upon the rakes fallowed brow Gleams the judgment of the sow And the Merlin’s misered plummage grinned in the wind.
From my mouth’s heart I speak and my eyes bleed their blood. Distant in passion, my mariners cheek is a window for all to see. The dark cranes fly low, but even in their lowness their flight is still a stain on the suitings of the wind. For once an evil is invited, curtained or free-roaming, the hair will vanish, white with the shame of it and the spirits casket shaped like a man but not, will warp and wither in the heather sprinkled garden of life’s lessondry and hope becomes the worshipped god of the centuries.
Oh sturdy lord in your gaudy land I beseech a pebble from your hand For to stow deep within my new gilded cage To fear off the mute deaf muse of age And my rose lute rides my limbs like a wave. Oh true tearfull lover of the weather-woven sage, near his well in the dell on the dale cupped with frail wounded newborn sparrow birds you and with life carved upon their arteries with the blunt end of my knife. For the brown boy, son of rustics, has a musket and a crate of bleached sea-travelled peach rum and the skull key’s to my baby’s gate. Woe, I am betrayed.
In the hall, high above the ceiling the furnace heaters blew. Blackhat fondled his white lashing hair, his avalanched glacier diminished in the artificial suns. A leg quivered, river green and massive like girders of seagold. A roar grew in the wrestling room of daybreak. Blackhat tittered with prideful delight. Mine he moaned, the melting water scurried down the appropriate channels. And now where once stood solid water stood the reptile king, Tyrannosaurus Rex, reborn and bopping.
